Many did, it was now clear. The notion of freedom could make even peace and order seem oppressive, generate the suspicion of some hidden purpose, some vast deceit, some unspecified crime being perpetrated beyond human ken. That was a generous way of looking at it; the alternative was to acknowledge that humans were intrinsically conflicted, cursed with acquisitive addictions of the spirit.
He reached the steep ramp leading to the well-hidden entrance to the tunnels, rats skittering from his path, and emerged into the warmer, drier air of Night. Yes, he would have to go to the pilgrim camp, but not now. This would demand some planning. Besides, if he could excise the cancer in the city, then the conspirators out there would find themselves isolated, helpless and incapable of achieving anything. He could then deal with them at his leisure.
Yes, that was a better course. Reasonable and methodical, as justice should be. He was not deliberately avoiding such a journey.
Satisfied with these arguments, Seerdomin set out to begin his night of slaughter, and here, in this city, night was without end.
The rats watched him set off. They could smell the blood on him, and more than one had been witness to the slaughter far below, and certain of these now ambled away from the ruin, heading for the world of daylight beyond the shroud.
Summoned, yes, by their master, the one known as Monkrat, an amusing enough name, implicitly contemptuous and derisive. What none of the man’s associates truly understood was the truth underlying that name. Monkrat, yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like. . at your peril.
The liberation had found an enemy, and something would have to be done about that.
The city of Bastion crouched above the vast dying lake, its stolid, squat walls black shy;ened and streaked with some kind of oil. The shanties and hovels surrounding the wall had been burned and then razed, the charred wreckage strewn down the slope leading to the cobbled road. Smoke hung above the battlements, thick and surly.
Cradling his battered hands — the reins looped loose about them — Nimander squinted up at the city and its yawning gates. No guards in sight, not a single figure on the walls. Except for the smoke the city looked lifeless, abandoned.
Riding at his side in the front of their modest column, Skintick said, ‘A name like “Bastion” invites images of ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons, suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,’ he added with a sigh, ‘we must be witness here to the blessed indolence of Saemankelyk, the Dying God’s sweet blood.’
Memories of his time in the company of the giant mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too uninterested to explain.
Since we failed him.
The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see the bleached flats stretching out from the old shoreline, stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left, inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows, but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there — the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of wrapped figures motionless.
They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no one in sight.
‘We’re being watched,’ Skintick said.
Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid eyes.
‘As if we’ve done just what they wanted,’ Skintick went on, his voice low, ‘by delivering Clip, straight to their damned Abject Temple.’
That was certainly possible. ‘I have no intention of surrendering him — you know that.’
‘So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A fanatic priesthood and a god?’
‘Yes.’
Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.
Nimander frowned at him. ‘Cousin, I don’t recall you possessing such blood-lust.’
‘Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we’ve been pushed long enough. It’s time to push back, that’s all. Still, that damage to your hands worries me.’
‘Aranatha did what she could — I will he fine.’ He did not explain how the wounding felt more spiritual than physical. Aranatha had indeed healed the crushed bones, the mangled flesh. Yet he still cradled them as if crippled, and in his dreams at night he found himself trapped in memories of that heavy block of obsidian sliding over his fingertips, the pain, the spurting blood — and he’d awaken slick with sweat, hands throbbing.
The very same hands that had strangled Phaed — almost taking her life. The pain felt like punishment, and now, in the city before them, he believed that once more they would know violence, delivering death with terrible grace.
They reined in before the gate’s archway. Sigils crowded the wooden doors, painted in the same thick, black dye that marred the walls to either side.
Nenanda spoke from the wagon’s bench. ‘What are we waiting for? Nimander? Let’s get this over with.’
Skintick twisted in the saddle and said, ‘Patience, brother. We’re waiting for the official welcoming party. The killing will have to come later.’
Kallor climbed down from the back of the wagon and walked up to the gate. ‘I hear singing,’ he said.
Nimander nodded. The voices were distant, reaching them in faint waves rippling out from the city’s heart. There were no other sounds, as one would expect from a crowded, thriving settlement. And through the archway he could see naught but empty streets and the dull faces of blockish buildings, shutters closed on every window.
Kallor had continued on, into the shadow of the gate and then out to the wide street beyond, where he paused, his gaze fixed on something to his left.
‘So much for the welcoming party,’ Skintick said, sighing. ‘Shall we enter, Ni shy;mander?’
From behind them came Aranatha’s melodic voice. ‘Be warned, cousins. This entire city is the Abject Temple.’
Nimander and Skintick both turned at that.
‘Mother bless us,’ Skintick whispered.
‘What effect will that have on us?’ Nimander asked her. ‘Will it be the same as in the village that night?’
‘No, nothing like that has awakened yet.’ Then she shook her head. ‘But it will come.’
‘And can you defend us?’ Nenanda asked.
‘We will see.’
Skintick hissed under his breath and then said, ‘Now that’s reassuring.’
‘Never mind,’ Nimander replied. Wincing, he tightened his grip on the reins and with a slight pressure of his legs he guided his horse into the city. The others lurched into motion behind him.
Coming to Kallor’s side Nimander followed the old man’s gaze down the side street and saw what had so captured his attention. The ruin of an enormous mechanism filled the street a hundred paces down. It seemed to have come from the sky, or toppled down from the roof of the building nearest the outer wall — taking most of the facing wall with it. Twisted iron filled its gaping belly, where flattened, riveted sheets had been torn away. Smaller pieces of the machine littered the cobbles, like fragments of armour, the iron strangely blue, almost gleaming.
‘What in the Abyss is that?’ Skintick asked.
‘Looks K’Chain Che’Malle,’ Kallor said. ‘But they would offer up no gods, dy shy;ing or otherwise. Now I am curious,’ and so saying he bared his teeth in a smile not directed at anyone present — which was, Nimander decided, a good thing.
‘Aranatha says the entire city is sanctified.’